The postcard

In among a letterbox full of junk mail, Daughter extricated three envelopes that vaguely constituted real post; like what to do with my rubbish over Christmas and a bill that should have been sent to the other address.

Oh yes, and the rubbish people (the collectors of, who no doubt are very fine people) require the wheelie bin to be left with the handle facing inwards.

Speaking of addresses that aren’t quite right, there was a postcard too. It was from people I’ve never heard of, including a Cenneth. (Please refer to my earlier blog about weird spellings of English names.) It was addressed to someone I’d never heard of.

But at my address. My street. My number. No postcode. Almost my village, slightly misspelt, but it’s what people do.

Thanks to the online telephone directory I was able to locate the real recipients of the card. (Did I mention it’s from Crete? It looks very nice.) They live about a fifteen minute walk away, in a street that also has something to do with quarries. Like mine. I live at number ten. They live at number nine.

So, pretty close.

Judging by the postmark, Cenneth’s holiday was in October.

I may take a walk in that direction one day, seeing as I have a past in the postal trade.

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